Fake
by simplemelodies
Summary: "It's been a while, hasn't it? I guess there are some things I should tell you, then." John's believing the lies now. Or so he says.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Best to be read along with Mozart's Canon in D. **

**Disclaimer: I own not a single hair on any single character's head.**

* * *

"Is it true?"

John looks out the window of the therapist's office. "Yes."

"Tell me what is true, John." She's persistent isn't she?

"He's dead."

"Who?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

The words rip at John's heart.

"Did he say anything before he died?"

"Yes."

"What did he say, John?"

"He said he was a fake."

"Was he?"

"Yes."

* * *

"There were times when I thought you were alive, when I thought maybe you could have faked your death. There are moments when I wanted to find you and kill you for putting me through that. Now I just can't think about it anymore. I don't think about it. You're dead, and I know that now. It's been far too long to believe anymore. I will see you then, Sherlock. I'll see you again."

* * *

"He's a fake." John watches the rain pour against the window of the office. "He told me himself he was, right before he jumped. Just didn't want to believe it myself, I guess."

"But you believe it now?"

"I have to."

She writes a few notes down in her folder. "What makes you believe he was a fake?"

"No one could know everything he did. It was inhuman."

"I recall that at one point, John, you told me that he could do just that."

* * *

"You were such a beautiful human being, even if you were a git sometimes. You were bloody brilliant. Of course, that may just have been you _acting_. I can't believe you'd do those things. I didn't know you, though, so how could I know why you did it? You are a fake, plain and simple."

* * *

"I guess we're done for today, then." She stands along with John, reaching a hand out to shake.

"Great. I'll see you next week, hmm?"

"Actually, John, I don't think you'll need me anymore."

"I—I'm sorry?"

She sighs. "John, you've admitted multiple times exactly what you think. You've accepted truth, and you've shown a major improvement. Now, to my standards, you are ready to be released of my sessions."

John paces around the flat, a bit weary. His work at the surgery has been weighing on him so much lately; Sarah decided to give him more of a workload since the New Year began. He mumbles about appointments and prescriptions and lack of sleep as he starts making tea.

_"Black. Two sugars."_

The baritone voice startles him, making him spill the hot water all over his arms. "Damn!" he shouts. Quickly, he grabs a dish towel from the cupboard and spins to confront the disembodied voice. "Who…" There is no one in the flat, not that he can see. So he rounds the corner, searching the stairway, the front room. "It couldn't have been…"

John is sure the voice was in his head—there was no way that was Sherlock. However, the doctor is shaken, even a bit unsteady as he has to sit down to collect himself. _It had been so real_, he thinks, _so close_.

* * *

"You really killed me, you know. For a while I was sort of broken—I wanted to believe you so bad. I wanted to believe _in_ you. Ha. I was just believing in a fairytale. God, when I saw you jump…eh…I thought that was the end. But I had hope, you know? You took that away."

* * *

Deciding that an early bedtime would be nice, the doctor trudges up to his room. He lets out a small _humph_ as he realizes he still has to clear out the boxes, and proceeds to search his closet.

_"John."_

He whips around, his eyes taking in everything behind him—his dresser, the doorway, the hall. There's nothing there, nothing to make a noise, and yet…

"Who are you?" John's words echo loudly in the flat. Nothing.

He slowly turns back to his wardrobe, picks out his nightwear, and leaves to take his shower.

* * *

"But I shouldn't have had hope anyway, should I? Oh, God, I was so naïve. I wanted you to be real. I wanted you to save me, didn't I? You were so larger-than-life, so full of a certain danger and unpredictable-ness that I thought I needed. Hell, maybe I did need it."

"John, we're leaving."

"Right, well. This will be the last time, then? The last time I talk to you. Oh, what a relief. Well. Ah, ehem. I will try to forget you, like you said." John touched his hand to the top of the tombstone for only a second before doing an about-face and walking towards Ms. Hudson and the cab.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I don't even know what I'm doing with my life. I am sorry this is short; I just really liked where it ended.**

**Disclaimer: Nope, I own nothing.**

John stands over the grave of the man he knows is alive.

"Don't play games with me."

_"I'm not."_

"Stop it. Stop this. Just…stop haunting me." The doctor lowers his face into his hands, taking a deep breath. "You aren't gone. You're—you can't be…dead."

"I'm not."

* * *

"It's been a while since…since the incident. I never got to—to really say goodbye. I suppose I can't say goodbye, though, because goodbye is so final. Goodbye means forever. I know I will see you again one day, so I can't say goodbye. I will just say see you later. Because I will see you later, Sherlock."

* * *

"You deserve a lot more than I initially gave you credit for. I can't imagine staying in that dusty flat alone. Of course, you're not entirely alone anymore; you have Mary. I can't deny that I'm a bit jealous—it seems you won't be my assistant when we meet again. That's a curious feeling, jealousy."

* * *

"I keep thinking back to all those times when we first met—you'd introduce me as your friend, but I'd always say otherwise. Now I see that I was somewhat right. You're not my friend, are you? Friends don't leave severed heads in the freezer. Friends don't interrupt dates with case opportunities. Friends don't make their friends watch while they die. No, Sherlock, you aren't my friend. You never were. You're my best friend. And I can never forgive you for that."

* * *

"I swear. I see your face everywhere. I can't get away. It's like you're haunting me—but you have to be dead to haunt someone."

* * *

"It took a long time to get everything ready. Coming back after playing dead for so long—that takes a lot of work. I suspect even Mycroft had trouble pulling strings. It's hard to come back to the flat; it won't be long, though."

* * *

"It's not so simple, getting back to normal. That was something I noticed a long time ago. It's funny how I was perceived as cold when all I ever did was notice the emotions of others. Ha. Emotions are funny—loneliness especially."

* * *

John grunts, brushing his fingertips across the top of the headstone just as he did three years previous.

"There's Mary—she's keeping me company now. We're not as serious as I'd like to be. Of course, I don't even know if I want to be serious anymore. She's good for me, though; keeps me out of trouble—something you failed to do."

* * *

It's been about three years now, maybe a bit less. Sherlock stands with a stoic expression, watching his old flatmate speak to the gravestone of a man who is very much alive. Why was it that John had this hold on him? The detective is known for being alone, for not needing anyone. So why, when he left three years ago, was the need to have his blogger by his side greater than the need to be alone?

It's something he was never able to explain to himself, but something that he found didn't exactly _need_ an explanation.

With a sigh, Sherlock begins his long strides to his old companion.

It's time.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I died writing this. It is now a finished work of "art". Also, note that this was a writing exercise. I needed to work on character dialogue. Thanks!**

**Disclaimer: Nope. I own nothing. Nada.**

"It's simple, really. I go back to the flat, live with Mary, and we will be happy together. I can't say it will be easy—I don't think it ever will be, but—."

"Oh, would you shut up!"

John spins around. "N—no." The ground beneath his feet seems to tilt as he takes in the dark figure standing before him.

"I never thought you'd be so melodrama—."

Before Sherlock can get the last word out, he's sprawled on the ground, clutching his face over an already reddening patch. "You—_bastard_!" John flexes his right hand and stalks away from the other man before turning back and reaching a hand to pull him up.

Sherlock dusts himself off and smirks. "I take that back."

"Just shut up, would you?" And Sherlock is being gathered into a hug that he didn't realize was coming.

He blinks. "Jo—."

"Bloody hell, you don't listen to anything, do you?" John shoves the detective away. "Three years, you git! Three bloody years I waited for—." Something lodges itself in the doctor's throat—anger, relief, grief, he can't really tell.

Sherlock stands with his hands at his side, silently waiting for John to quiet, to be still. The older man pulls at his hair. "No. No, I'm not—this isn't—you aren't. Damn—why now? I was so ready to settle." He stops, calms, flexes his fingers just as he did three years previous, takes a deep breath. "You ruin everything."

The words cut at Sherlock, but he doesn't show it. He stands, stoic, taking in his companion. "I suppose I should go, then. It's quite obvious I am no longer needed."

It's also quite obvious to John that the words that are coming out of the detective's mouth are causing him physical pain. "Sher…Hell, I didn't mean—come here you git." And once again the younger man finds himself in the arms of his best friend.

"Sentiment…" He mutters to himself as he wraps his arms around John. He isn't supposed to feel relief, to feel pain at possibly having to leave again. He needs to be here, to be home. He needs his blogger—his best friend. He needs his brother. He needs the crimes, and the late nights, and the danger of _living_.

Sherlock pulls back with a smirk. "Dinner?"

"Oh God, yes."

* * *

It definitely isn't easy. John has to adapt. He and Mary have constant rows about Sherlock taking his time, distracting him. Somehow they've pulled through. They'll be married next fall.

Sherlock is back on with Lestrade, even if it was hard getting there. Mycroft had a major say in it, using something along the lines of crime rates rising and such. The cases are few and far between, but they seem to be growing in number as of late.

The apologies to the ex-army doctor came quite soon after Sherlock's return. "We should have believed you, you know." "You were always right, save toward the end."

But John knows, and so does Sherlock, that he never gave up. John will always believe in Sherlock Holmes.

Always.


End file.
